[Bandicott] has some very funny redeeming qualities: Yvonne Bonnette, the hero's mistress, has the body of "a ripened Nereid every square inch of whose skin was an erogenous zone." In the boudoir, when not otherwise engaged, she plays the saxophone…. Such humor, however, is sporadic in Bandicoot. And even when it surfaces, sometimes with rib-tickling effect, it is undermined by Condon's complete lack of restraint. A less experienced writer could be excused for this overkill of mirth, but one expects more from the veteran author….

Condon stuffs [this novel] with humor—outrageous, more outrageous, most outrageous—until … it explodes and sputters into oblivion. (p. 101)